


Reflections on Desire

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Little Red Book [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Bottom Wanda Maximoff, Dirty Talk, Dom Bucky Barnes, F/M, Fluff, Handcuffs, Kissing, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Mirror Sex, Mirrors, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Masturbation, Nipple Play, Romantic Fluff, Sex, Spooning, Stockings, Sub Wanda Maximoff, Top Bucky, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, winterwitch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 01:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14321655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: "Mirror. I need to see." Her voice gives out, and she resumes speaking only with difficulty. "See you. What you do to me."Not want.Need.There's a difference.That's enough to have him grab and shift her, angling her towards the standing glass hung on the wall. Enough light in the room allows Bucky a clear view of his blushing lover. He adjusts them both, his cock heavy and thick, slapping up against her folds for the instinctive intent to bury himself to the balls in her sweet, impossible heat. A different position is all better to have her in front, shielding him from it. He is the reverse of an exhibitionist, himself, but with her before him, flushed and panting, voyeurism is another prospect entirely. Literally.





	Reflections on Desire

**Author's Note:**

> _I will soothe you and heal you,_  
>  _I will bring you roses._  
>  _I too have been covered with thorns._  
>  \-- Rumi

Home. For really, wherever she is, is home. It's their suite in the Avengers Mansion. Bucky is generally the sort of person to content himself with a barebones apartment outfitted by only the essentials. The idea of several rooms furnished by more than throwaway particle-board and a mattress on the floor still feels strange, all things considered, let alone the opulence their status as Avengers entitle them to.

Rare quiet moments away from the endless meetings, mission reviews, and practice in one of the many facilities on site call for taking full advantage of the quiet. Half the team scattered to the four winds around New York, and the remaining ones made themselves scarce.

"Hey, FRIDAY," Bucky calls out to the omnipresent AI, Stark's work and personal Big Brother. If not for the fact it's too far to schlep to their Greenwich Village flat he rents under an assumed name, they would have left hours ago. "Blackout our floor and lockdown, would you?"

"Confirmed, Mr. Barnes," she calls. "Please be aware any emergencies will require me to interrup--"

The line warbles and crackles, stilled to silence. He glances over at the brunette reclining next to him, her outstretched fingers glowing a luminous shade of ripe plum-red. Faded sparkles blossom and evaporate in a breath while her hex takes hold, sealing the room.

"I'm never going to get used to that," he murmurs into her hair.

"Will that be a problem?"

"Having better security than Stark? Never."

"I'm glad," she replies. "Now where were we?"

He stretches out his arms casually over his head, the t-shirt sleeve tugging against the cool shadowy planes of his vibranium arm. Light catches the gold inlay, so different from the t-shirt and pyjama pants. One falls around Wanda's shoulder whilst he casually pulls her against him, nestled together close, easily spooning despite her lither build, his greater breadth.

"Careful. I don't want you to crush me."

"Should I just admire you from the ottoman?"

The idea of her departure would be a cruelty, to be sure, given the elegant wrappings that damn well deserve locking down the entire mansion just to allow him maximum time to appreciate her handiwork.

Wanda rarely goes all out, but Bucky contends delightedly with that Francophile aspect of her personality he barely knows of. In this case, marabou on the cuffs and a filmy baby-doll tied under the bustline, all of it in a pale jade only true redheads and their brunette cousins ever pull off. Just to break the old man's heart, French silk stockings -- the real thing -- somehow act as a safety measure. The thin lace girdle of a garter belt does the trick of supporting suspenders for the stockings, adorned by another petite bow inches below her navel.

That long hair of his is worn with pride, clouding his expression while he takes her in from over her shoulder. Silk stockings, indeed. They inspire a moment of mute and utter reverence, deserving of consideration. Bucky runs his hand up along the outer curve of her thigh, the sensation of silk rather than her usual smooth skin something new and not altogether unwelcome. He takes his time for now, kissing the back of her neck, hand skimming up to her waist, still over the diaphanous flow of fabric. Clean-shaven, freshly showered, he certainly looks clean but nothing in his wardrobe matches her level of refinement.

The long brown hair he wears may be unconventional for a soldier, but Wanda isn't the sort of person to resist. She never withholds herself from petting him, running her fingers through the strands whilst he sleeps. With her back to him, she brushes the back of her hand along the satiny weight near her neck to luxuriate in the nearness of his body, the decadence of the moment. His caresses leave her with her eyes almost closed, her toes treadling the sheet, working in a deep, pleasant set of circles of mutable satisfaction. Never mind she wants to nuzzle into his shoulder, spooning into him is certainly acceptable.

"What's that?" Bucky asks at her ear, kissing her hairline.

"That?"

"You expecting me to wear one of your bangles? I hate to disappoint, sweetheart, but my wrist isn't that small."

He tips his head off his raised shoulder. A charmed bracelet sits prominently on the nightstand, fully charged and quiescent, adjacent to Bucky should he ever want it.

A smile emerges from her usually intense expression, allowing a glimpse of delight. "Enchanted handcuffs."

His heart about goes still. That's pure shock, and someone is going to have to shake him free of silence lasting several moments longer than normal. He has to remember to draw in a breath. Handcuffs are down the list of his agenda.

"For me?"

"No, love. Me."

Top of them is nuzzling into her hair, devoting himself to foreplay. He lies on his left side, so the metal arm is support for the moment, leaving him the opportunity to enjoy the feel of fabric under his palm and pressing up against her from behind. There have been eager hours of impatient lovemaking, meant to slake hungers that couldn't be indulged thoroughly with the rest of the Avengers listening in. But now they have leisure and rest enough behind them that he can take his time, slowly, breathing in the scent of her.

A scent of unapologetic resin and dark attars hinting at Middle Eastern souks, she prefers that perfume exclusively to all others. The very hint of black roses, silken and deep, stirs his arousal nowadays, and the perfume she dabbed at her throat only reaffirms his intention to disassemble her bit by bit until she keens his name at the moment of her release.

The girl mostly covered by being clad in filmy attire leaves zero to the imagination. She rubs her cheek to his upper arm and scarred shoulder.

"Do you mind?"

"Only an idiot would refuse his lady when she wants to explore." Bucky's laugh escapes from his throat in a rusty chuckle, his smile easier than it may have been in weeks.

She smiles. "I'd like to try them, if you would."

"You're sure the door is locked? The last thing I want is Clint barging in, yelling about ignoring practice."

"I care not one whit if any of our teammates are all ears to the door, hanging upside down staring in the windows, or living vicariously through Tony's cameras." Wanda runs her thumb down the metallic plates grafted into the vibranium prosthetic, feeling the tremors of his powerfully toned body. Pressing herself back into his hands and nestling into the hollow between them, the heat of his body she greedily swallows up.

"More," a cracked whisper drops to the threshold of even a super-soldier's hearing. In their lovemaking, she regularly keeps silent as though fearful a teammate might kick open the door to accuse them. Rather, Wanda speaks through how tightly her legs wrap around him or she clutches his shoulders in quaking extremis. Her underlined concern purrs by trailing her hands blindly over his flanks, his chest out of arm's reach.

Kisses Bucky confides to the hollow behind her earlobe, the soft skin of her throat. That hand snakes under the wisp of fabric to trace the curve of her waist, the lacy boundaries of the garter belt. He follows one suspender down to the top of a stocking, hand curving around it. He brands a smile against one shoulder, clearly felt.

"How'd you know I've got a thing for silk stockings?" he whispers, even as he levers himself up to lean over her, chest against her back, the better to claim a kiss from her lips.

How indeed? The question meets its answer in the elegant, blithe smile curving the fullness of Wanda's mouth, right before he claims his kiss and dampens the slanting, feline fire of her amber eyes. A lady never tells, and for all she wrapped herself up for the explicit purpose of Bucky dragging off layers for his own purpose, she may still be a lady. Dark lashes brush against her cheekbones as she finally surrenders the perfect sight of Bucky Barnes happy and content, a private memory to be treasured in the night or hours of their separation.

His hand trailing over her skin through the flimsiest of high-denier weaves has such an unusual tactile sensation her knee jumps, leg slid the higher under the enchantment of his palm. No marionette strings here, only the cadence of a rising tide of red-white passion. Those seamed stockings wrap around his thigh when she slides her calf between his, levered up to allow for entanglement without spoiling the effect. All she needs is some marabou-laden heeled slipper dangling off her foot to possibly trip off a Seventy-five-year-old fantasy.

His own clothes he sacrifices first, flung hastily to the side. The better to savor the sensation of marabou, silk, and chiffon against skin so much more used to pain and strain and burning cold.

Whence he leans, oh, that poisoned truth of shivering desire raises her nipples to painfully tight points under the jade sea, starbursts receptive to the damn air temperature. Their bedroom is perfectly comfortable and might as well be a Siberian winter given how Wanda trembles. She trembles and raises her head to Bucky, the better to drink in his kiss. Teeth alone graze his lower lip rather than instill a taste of violent desire.

The human hand comes around to toy with those poor neglected buds through the fabric. An elegant compromise between the dangerous practicalities and long ignored fantasies. Bucky squeezes and plucks on each, reaching over her breasts to assure her nipples harden up. Legs entwined, carefully he maneuvers around Wanda, his mouth curving in that feline smile before he nips in return.

"You look like a million dollars," he adds, lazily, feeling the warmth of her body through the fabric.

The sharp harp-arch of her back strengthens the contours of the s-curve, breasts thrust forward and hips angled back, a correlation between greed and lust as her preferred deadly sins. His hands are right where they ought to be, long and agile digits meant to reshape either pale golden breast or merely the dusty pink tips turning hard as rose quartz and every bit as elastic as silk. Her shoulders smoothly tilt back and Wanda turns her head, the better to claim a kiss here and there.

"You are priceless. Not only the arm." That she raps lightly with her closed fist, incredibly light by her standards at least, enough to make it barely ring. Must seem the sex kitten she is, every inch, right down to the lidded, bedroom eyes and the catch of her teeth in her bruised lower lip. Indecencies play shamelessly as she stretches out against him, altogether languorous about it, vixen of a housewife absolutely unaware of how her buttocks fit against the bowl of his hips or she invitingly threatens to tear the fabric of her nightgown. Back to supine, they spoon indolently except for that hot, deprived spark glowing behind her navel, a kind of presence that causes poor judgment.

"Cuff me," a shriven whisper, "when you're ready, mm?"

Shivering breaths track impatient rising, his cock finding the curve between her toned buttocks while Wanda presses back against his groin. Bucky's expression softens, his icy gaze thinned by the lace and chiffon skimming underneath him. The rap on his arm makes him laugh, just a little. He leaves off the toying with her nipples to hike her leg, drape it back over his own.

Idle pressure of his own aching length shifts gently against her, a modified tempo flirting with relieving some of the stress of his erection and preparing her for what inevitably follows. The metal hand creeps down along the exquisite topography of her figure, relearning her the way he once pored over terrain and contour lines in the field. Under her flank, he palms the delta so barely shielded by that scrap of silk. Her panties don't stand a chance against him. He curves his fingers under them, one good tug on the satiny triangle snapping the band to deprive her of the one certain shield over her womanhood.

The mattress and comforter re soft enough to relieve the pressure, at least a little. He relies on that. His flexing middle finger traces the contours exposed by discarded silk, following the divide, up and down and back again. What little shelter her bare rosy folds provide swiftly falls.

A breath slips out of Wanda's parted mouth, not so different from the shallow arpeggios climbing for the ceiling when rapture steals all sense of the world beyond them. Slow to rise upon this occasion, her fingers slide between her legs, breaching that divide already traversed by Bucky's wrist. Let him enjoy the soft wetness of her folds, she goes further, to feel the delicate crenellations of her perineum. Ease found in joining his dance; her skill at waltzing has ever been a bit more instinctive, a byproduct of intense physical awareness and the ace up the sleeve, defying gravity. Not so difficult to listen to his lead and follow the cues, slowly undulating her hips in a slow five-eighths time whilst those nimble fingers seek him out, if a whisper lower, to caress his hardened cock and full balls snug behind her where she can reach him under her backside. The marabou can't tickle tender skin that way, flattened fringe of plumage making a racket while she aims for whatever she can touch. The easier portion of the work is his, her wristbone flat up against his metallic fingers, ships passing in the night in a wine-dark, dreamy sea.

Pants that don't last long. He scrapes them down in a fit of impatience to let her have the skin to skin contact she obviously craves. His fingers follow hers, let her set pressure and pace, lest his own neediness set things off before their time.

His impatience almost calms Wanda -- at least on the surface. Very different indeed with her legs wide and that acute sensitivity. Her desire bubbles away at a boil, her self-control far less stable than meets the eye. Already tense above the waist, her need is unbearable below. He's already got her wet and eager. The notch they both work within is spanned by tightening thigh muscles, calves aquake at times not to dissolve away or hasten her climax. One hand occupied by touching him, a slow-motion handjob; the other? That pulls his head down, cupping his cheek, beckoning him to her mouth. First sparks turn into a conflagration on the link; it matches how hard she jolts against his fingers.

Found the on switch, James Barnes. Hard against her, he surrenders to the beginning of a gentle grind as he flicks up the marabou fringe of her babydoll nightgown above her waist. That finger insinuates itself past the edge of her silken folds, seeking more direct contact. Warm and smooth and harder than skin, vibranium brushes over the hood of that pearl. The groove adds a different textural dimension and he almost smiles into the kiss she sought when her clit tightens up.

Early, arrested release is hardly an issue in Wanda's book, not when any stanza of rapturous climax can be repeated multiple times. The end is never at just one slick orgasm: there's always another hill to climb, another valley to descend, with all the trueborn lust of an explorer born. Her interest in the well-charted vale of her own slit wanes, the familiar slippery terrain hardly of concern when Bucky is at hand. She turns her head to brand his throat with a kiss and rotates slightly, laid out against his back and giving Bucky as much contact as she deems safe. Were he laid flat out, she would invariably lie atop him, and the issue of placement resolves itself neatly anyways, legs braced to the outer sides of his thighs as far as he cares to move them.

Bucky tongues at her lips in slow flickers until she parts them, and then shares a deeper, harder kiss. The softness of her mouth presses upon his, and her shift into a more demanding, active role requires a little compromise. Stroking her quicker, he circles his fingertip around her pearl in lazy undulations that fail to give any force. Not ready for her to find her release, not yet, hearing her moan while their tongues duel is certainly pleasure enough.

Supple flexibility has a purpose, after all. Showing off how well those silk stockings fit, and how the garter belt obligingly slides higher with the filmy hemline of that nightgown useless other than as a pretty, translucent sleeve for him. Her muffled opinion about his efforts is not a loud one, but she shivers all the same. The moment he starts to toy with her clit in earnest, her legs tighten. Wanda seeks an escape, some misdirection. Her hand slides around past his wrist to reach for his thick shaft, gripping to stroke him and push him vertical so his cock is pinned between her buttocks. That smooth partition cradles him as she rocks back, more than a little shamelessly.

The way she rides against him keeps Bucky suckling at her lower lip and groaning low in his throat, the signal she hit the mark. Her smallest motions key him up, and he returns the favour by cupping her heavy breast within his hand while starting to rub between her folds. His fingers delve in a vee past her clit to dip into her entrance, dragging her wetness back to coat that silken flesh. Let her take, if it pleases her, for he is happy to offer himself to her pleasure, and offer his own in turn.

Wanda turns her head to kiss his throat, nipping at the more readily available slope of his shoulder. The mark is not sharp enough to bleed, but felt? Yes. And through it, the briefest saturated spark of magic runs into him, an electric shock to energize him and leave Bucky acutely sensitive as she is. Bad girl, using tricks. That rough velvet murmur against the bed is scarcely audible. "I've waited to open for you for hours. Feels like forever. Too long, James..."

A shift of his hips and his cock slips between her thighs, pressed against her wet silk where he can rub against her. The lightning spark makes his breath catch for other reasons entirely. "It's always too long," he says, with a hint of humor, before claiming her mouth for a long, languid kiss again. He can't get enough when he sees how bruised and full her lips are after he moulds them by his love. The metal fingers delve between those petals as he pleasures her from below, scales brushing over the rose-pink bud, down between to her opening. Followed by another, three spread her and stoke his own impatience by deliberately playing with her slit until she is sopping for him.

Gods above, she craves that touch, that feeling, teasing herself. Nothing might be worse than lying in Bucky's embrace and unable to quite reach him, him drawing idle circles around either hole and refusing to slip his fingers within. Certain to make her thrash and chant his name in a broken paean, for the pale shadow of teasing he offers her constitutes a very special kind of trouble. He smiles when her legs tighten around him, the quivering wet flesh clinging to his fingertips mashed into the shallow channels of his plated fingers.

"I love it when you get needy, sweetheart. You want more, don't you?

Wanda shuts her eyes. "Please."

"Your pussy is getting hot and greedy, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh." Truth in the statement Bucky makes sends Wanda into a meltdown at some level. Heat slips out of her to coat his fingers, and further conversation ends as she draws in her breath, going stiff. Under his mouth, her treacherous lips remain pliant and she can scarce provide any kind of eloquent response. Blind to anything else, she keeps her eyes closed better to rely wholly on the impressions of receptive nerves kicked up to highest alert in the presence of those grooved fingertips known by muscle memory and imprint on the flesh.

Subtle motions stir her up to almost gasping, but for the slick, melodic symphony. Bucky presses his palm to her bare slit and paints his fingertips in eager circles. "Listen." His voice at her ear is demanding as much as her trembling body is. "Listen to how wet you are, Wanda."

How can she not listen? The position she holds doesn't let her arch very well, and her feet might very well cross and lock behind his knee if not for the burning, instinctive need to move somehow. He primes her to find her release and Wanda runs for that finish line, bearing down on his palm. But the dim thought to share her pleasure kicks back in. Feathers tickle his leg as she reaches under her leg and spreads her fingers along his cock. She pushes him up into her, stroking along the crown and back down the vein.

"Mirror. I need to see." Her voice gives out, and resumes only with difficulty. "See you. What you do to me." Not want. Need. There's a difference.

That's enough to have him grab and shift her, angling her towards the standing glass hung on the wall. Enough light in the room allows Bucky a clear view of his blushing lover. He adjusts them with some difficulty, his cock heavy and thick, slapping up against her folds for the instinctive intent to bury himself to the balls in her sweet, impossible heat. A different position is all better to have her in front, shielding him from it. He is the reverse of an exhibitionist, himself, but with her before him, flushed and panting, voyeurism is another prospect entirely. Literally.

It brings out a little hint of cruelty, displaying her to herself: silvery fingers nudging that scrap of silk of her torn panties aside, spreading heated skin taut, exposing it to cool air. God, he will never grow tired of seeing her wet and ready for him, not until the day he dies. Fingers still toy with her slit, playing with that bared pearl, but not in any way calculated to permit release. Even as he grunts at her fingers in return, biting at her shoulder. "My lady. Look at yourself."

A little bit of magic and showmanship assure fantastic performances, all said and done. Every ringmaster knows the sleight of hand can enthrall an audience, and the grand reveal earns their cries of approval, their shimmering applause. Bucky isn't the sort to flirt with discovery; no doubt the training of an assassin goes too deep in the veins, beaten into practice. She stands as the opposite to that, near indestructible bait waltzing across life's stage. Either way, they're well-matched for being displayed in front of the mirror, entwined where the silvery glass reflects everything.

Rapid, shallow breaths straining the gossamer lingerie wrapped around her, nothing more than a bow holding the ensemble together. Her job to pull one tie deliberately while his fingers dance along her wet flesh. The immediate result sets the gown drifting open across her breasts, the material pinned down under his arm across her stomach, suitable enough for the gap to flirt with revealing her body under a sea of purest imperial Chinese green.

"Good girl." A bite at her earlobe encourages further action, even as he stares past the cloud of her dark hair.

If Bucky had any inklings the nudge towards cruel or visibility somehow goes wrong, the slickness that drips slowly across his fingertips, coating his knuckles, and giving an aural dimension to their lovemaking in its slow demise undermines the concerns entirely. Wanda's unfocused gaze is riveted on their reflection, nailed down for nothing short of the second coming. Every last ripple of muscle or shift of his limbs goes without comment, that bite making her soundlessly cry out, larynx failing. Manic little flutters kiss his fingers in fine detail as her clit swells, a burning-bright point of sheer pleasure, her entrance contracting in hopes of some relief, sonmething to evade the emptiness aching in her. The stoic's fight against passions of the flesh fails, her self-control cracking.

"Bucky..."

"Tell me what you want, sweetheart."

Her dripping, soaked pussy makes for a louder counterpoint than her whisper, self-control failing in the moment. Silvery fingers skating around rosy flesh, a painfully taut little nub besieged. No request for anything, a game of endurance plays between them. He need only check her reflection to see the glassy hunger in her eyes. He almost looks respectable, next to that fallen nymph, all the more fascinating as a balance between them.

Self-control, indeed. An icy sliver of that assassin's mind, a sniper's patience transmutes for games far more benign than the old kind of hide and seek. He pinches her lightly between index finger and thumb, holding himself in check. Tugging and pressing tighter determines to feel out her reaction. He nudges against her ear and tries teeth against the shell-curve there, playing.

Truly, an unfair outcome. He knows how badly that affects her.

Old assassin games that punched men through walls and snapped necks easy as holiday crackers can stay where they belong: in the annals of history or the dusty halls of a Soviet ZATO. She half-closes her eyes, an odalisque caught in a private moment of carnal exploration. So easy for the jade neckline to droop away to bare a shoulder with that bite mark laced in a crescent, the long expanse of her neck coated by shadowy, autumnal strands tending to wave rather than sit dead straight. She reaches up to pull her hair away, the better to witness the inevitable demise on another point so tender and fragile, the leap of the pulse wins Olympic high-jump records when his teeth land. Another supple arch stiffens her body, mirrored reflections capturing the strained tightening of stomach muscles, the release of her grip on him to favour locking her arms behind his waist, elbows pointed outwards as those treacherous hands grip his backside for stability and damn near anything to hold onto.

"Come," he whispers to her, and she does.

A soft cry burns into the night, and he suckles on her throat where it meets her neck. Wanda holds him fast and he in turn refuses to let her go, his arm solid as it crosses her bucking, hitched body. The little nodule gripped by his fingers he rubs rapidly, tugging her clit away from its hood and stroking little circles with his thumb. She tenses against him and bucks, his shaft sliding easily through her folds. He'll wait to plunge himself in -- barely. More important to tilt her to watch her own reflection in the mirror, the way he spreads her apart and continues to tease her as he does, milking the treasure of her clitoris while he flirts with plunging into her.

Wanda prefers it this way; not the slow decline but the quick demise creaming on fingertips, mouth pressed to his, frantically shifting clothes around to allow for a swift, deep penetration through a flurry of strokes. Behind the darkening shadow of Bucky's frigid aspect, something light burns all the more luminous in her. Her hips roll to meet his fingers, that captivating sight hard to break her gaze from. She falls into the whiteout of his touch to that erogenous zone along her ear, and more significantly stirring her up -- fuck, _there_  -- and keens to the feverish contractions rippling out of nowhere. Fingers squeeze him tight, kneading, gripping to pull him a little harder to her.

He rides her release out. Rubbing back within her grip, Bucky withdraws far enough to wedge himself between her, his tip traveling against the cleft of her buttocks. He orders in a whisper, "Get the bracelet," even as those metallic fingers plunge down into those slick depths, curl up to rub within against her g-spot. Flesh just exposed now has the heel of that steely palm to contend with, a harder pressure.

For a second she meets her reflection and his gaze, blighted by a shred of defiance. She is too slow to respond to the request, stalling on an intend to goad him deliberately and the larger part refusing to be separated from his touch for long. Somehow she has to maneuver to reach the nightstand, twisting her torso to avoid actual separation to go after the caged filigree bracelet.

His fingers twist in the most interesting ways within her, his wrist soaked in the process when the sensation finally catches up to her overwrought mind. Nerves sing to the two digits curled to tease her hidden nerves, rubbing in a full circle. Her hand barely closes on the bracelet after two uncoordinated attempts before she succumbs to burying her face in the mattress, crying out.

"Good girl. Let it out," he says.

Her arm sweeps back to offer the bracelet to him. He takes it, gently running his hand over her side in wordless support. Wanda presses down into the bed, dragging her breasts against the soft comforter. He fastens the opal-studded bracelet around her narrow wrist with a shaking mortal hand, and tugs her other arm close. Latent magic blossoms out of quiescent, bands of scarlet force trapped in an infinity loop that anchor her wrists together.

The enchantment bites in immediately, opal flaring from near solid black to a spectrum cast in deepest nebulous fire. Illuminated veins slowly emerge from the stone. Relief -- lasting no more than a few seconds -- painted over Wanda's face is rather akin to slipping into a favourite pair of jeans crossed with the first rendezvous between separated lovers. She cries out to him.

"Please! James, please."

He kisses her throat, unable to resist. "You look so good cuffed, sweetheart."

They make a good pair that way, and Wanda turns her head, banishing the vision of their lovemaking to the periphery of her vision. Quicker, she seeks out his mouth, pressing her lips in a staggered line of kisses along his cheek and jaw until he might acquiesce. He brings his mouth down on hers for a lingering taste of her mouth under his, and that more than anything undoes the final bit of his control.

With her positioned, Bucky cannot resist himself. All the better to withdraw his hand from her, and he grasps his cock and sinks hilt deep from behind, impatient, silken nightgown almost torn in his haste to twitch it aside from her. Then he falls into deep, surging strokes as his hand clamps down on her hip and pulls her to him. Metal returns to its former place, vibranium fingers spreading her folds wide. Thumb and fingertip flickering over that tautest peak of her clit as he thrusts into her tight channel. A hiss of satisfaction merges with her moans before he nips the flesh of her throat. Rougher, now.

However much her knees might seek to part, they remain anchored at an ideal height for Bucky to sink in. Initially, a tentative roll of her hips meets the vigorous tempo as he drives into her, and soon Wanda rises to the moment to join him. His jackhammering pace guides her to crying out for him, her core quaking and hot. The faster he goes, the better to coat him with the copious honey betrayed as a sheen against his cock. And once the kiss ends, reluctantly, her eyes seek his in the mirror, partaking of the way he ravishes and plunders her body. And why not? It's mindblowing to see rather as he sees the way his thick, curving shaft vanishes inside her, a spectacle of his fingertips upon her blushing labia, and back to marking her throat.

Knees lift, letting her float, held apart. The faintest ruby light glimmers around her body. For spectacle, she exposed herself, leaving his hands free.

The telekinetic elevation, that's wild. Enough to give Bucky bemused pause for a moment. More kisses, but even he gets caught, now and again, by the sheer sight of it. Born into an era before apparently every possible variation of everything was filmed, he finds watching her as a novelty in its own right. Finally drawing off the filmy, feathery confection, he seeks to feel skin against skin. "You're floating," he tells her, voice warm, amused.

"You can get deeper." A truth plied upon those bitten lips, scoured clean of aught but whispers and fantasies in the flesh. That, and the stockings are displayed best when her toes point at the bed, which she says nothing of. Glimmering scarlet light anchors under her knees and pulls further apart, giving an unrestricted view and playground for yon sergeant. The bracelet cuffing her wrists continues to glow softly, the opal alight, as its spell binds her wrists at a point where she can barely brush his cock with her fingertips.

Again and anew, the view won't ever get old. Seeing her spread guarantees a rough awakening from dreams, reaching for her in hours to come. For now, Wanda receives a warm kiss and a choked laugh. "Any time you want it deep, just say so."

In the now, he presses her against him far back as she can go, bobbing like a buoy under the swell and dip of his movements. Wanda cries out softly. Hard not to want to touch him, feel him sink in, or just help the spread of the unimpeded view. How close can one be before shattering? "Had to see us." Correction, a whimper there. "You."

Bucky turns them, then, from sidesaddle to sitting up, planting his feet on the floor. Keeping her back to him, he pulls her down and down again as he thrusts up. Better in line with the narrow view of the glass, they have the trappings of elegance in the middle of the profane. His hair brushes dark against that pale skin. Pinching her nipples hard, he treats Wanda almost as rough as he ever cares or dares to be until she cries out his name. Holding her down for a rolling grind, still astride him, he grinds as deeply as he can into her wetness.

She is weightless, comparatively, Bucky's strength used to advantage on that front. Wanda utters soft sounds, barely audible, at a fraction of their normal volume. The whip-strikes of her hair lash both their skin, delicate as a dream, the pronounced jarring traveling through her lithe form. Within the narrow confines of her pussy, the chaotic reactions to such changing angles and his size produce their own set of consequences, slickness the unspoken promise. Bouncing atop him, she clenches around his cock. Her fingers curl, hands clasped in a prayer against his groin.

"Come for me, angel," It's an order, but by the strain in his voice, one driven by his own desperation.

Her body already complies to the siren's call of his. When she comes, it is hard, a cruelty to experience in all its fervour, tightly gripping him and churning her hips rough and hard. Check off being made to come, cuffed and exposed to the mirror, as a situation that clearly does something powerful to the witch because she gives everything she has into spiralling out into the starry blaze of transcendence. "Please," the only sensical sound to be had in the broken fragments of a gasp.  
  
Bucky bows his head to bite lightly at her throat, a wolf's nip, that application of teeth sinking in to mark Wanda's golden flesh.

Then his head's thrown back., and they're angled just such she can see it all.

See his teeth bared as if he'd fend off that tide of ecstasy by sheerly threatening it. Not that it works -- it brings him toppling over the edge in spasms, slickness all the more, enough to make both their thighs gleam with it. How she reduces him to grasping her hips tight enough to bruise, pulling them together, unwilling to surrender his lover to the cold, callous world.

Those are the moments to be treasured, as much as a far gone girl lost in the vertigo of euphoric highs can. Bracelet in place, there lies no threat of her freeing her arms, thus fully the plaything of their mutual lust. Wanda cries out again, louder, while their bodies mingle together and she draws the ferocity of an orgasm right out of him. Something entirely different experiencing Bucky's release in this way, the downward pressure she exerts meant to wring out a little more sensation from him -- in the most tangible ways, filled by every drop he offers, and the ephemeral, holding them snugly locked together in the way of lovers besotted with one another. She cannot bear to be still at such a vulnerable point, gasping, rocking back onto his cock, staring wide-eyed at their own deshabille reflection.

Almost good enough to come again on the spot, watching him, seeing that intense expression gracing his countenance. He takes only a moment to spin the bound girl around to face him, never disengaging from her in the process. Magic buoys her up and supports them both as he cradles her in his arms, accepting that steady foundation.

Floating, indeed. Lovers who defy gravity, and on his behalf, even. It's a wonder, if one Bucky is not really cogent enough to appreciate. Not when he's pinned under her, still moving within her. Any thought of the visual show forgotten, entirely lost in the body's own inward sensations.

"Wanda," he whispers, and robs her of breath as she wraps her legs around his waist.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this latest installment of a Winterwitch fic. I owe a debt to the incomparable [mambo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo), an author inspiring in her ability to conjure up the most romantic, brilliant prose.


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